The admiral continued harshly, “Most ships go rotten from without. Wind and sea are cruel masters, even to the best timbers.” He stared at the rain splattering across the windows. “Phalarope has received her rot from within!” He began to pace angrily, his shadow crossing and recrossing the room like a spectre. “There was almost a mutiny a month back, and then when her squadron was engaged in battle with some blockade runners she avoided action!” He halted and glared at Bolitho with something like shock. “Can you believe that? A King’s ship, and she failed to engage!”

Bolitho bit his lip. Mutiny was always a threat. Men pressed from life ashore, a handful of troublemakers, even one stupid officer, could turn a well-drilled ship into a living hell. But it rarely occurred with other ships in company. Usually this sort of madness broke out in a ship becalmed under a relentless tropical sun, with fever and disease the main instigators. Or during a long voyage out of sight of land, when a ship seemed to shrink in size with each dragging day, as if to force the men at each other’s throats.

Sir Henry Langford added sharply, “I’ve relieved her captain of his command, of course.”

Bolitho felt a strange warmth for this tired, irritable old man, whose flagship, a massive three-decker, was even now taking on stores in the harbour and preparing to carry her master back to his squadron off the hostile French coast. He had said “of course.” Yet Bolitho knew that many admirals would have backed up their captains even knowing them to be both guilty and incompetent.

The admiral gave a small smile. “I am afraid your honour is double-edged! It is never easy to take over an unhappy ship, especially in time of war.” He pointed at a sealed envelope on his desk. Its seals glittered in the firelight like fresh blood. “Your orders. They require you to take command forthwith and proceed to sea.” He weighed his words carefully. “You will seek out Sir Samuel Hood’s squadron and place yourself under his orders.”

Bolitho felt dazed. Hood was still in the West Indies whence he had just returned. He had a brief picture of the same thousands of miles of empty sea, in command of a strange ship, with a crew still seething in discontent.

“So you see, Bolitho, I am still a hard taskmaster!” The admiral shuddered as a squall hit the window. “I am afraid you are nearly one hundred men under strength. I had to remove many of the troublemakers, and replacements are hard to come by. Some I will have to hang, as soon as a court martial can be convened. You have barely enough men to work the ship under way, let alone in action.” He rubbed his chin, his eyes glittering. “I suggest you make sail at once and head for the West Country. I understand that the fishing fleets are mostly in port in Devon and Cornwall. The weather it seems is not to their liking.” His smile broadened. “I see no objection to your visiting Falmouth, Bolitho. While your officers are ashore pressing some of these fishermen into the King’s service, you might well find the time to call upon your father. You will give him my kind regards, I hope.”